


Twilight

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bedroom is barely lit, and they wallow in this twilight – nobody here can see them, judge them, condemn them. (Pre-series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Clair-obscur](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360320) by [Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune). 



> Written in 2007, based a prompt by Camille-Miko: Michael/Lincoln, the sentence “I missed you”, a feather and a sweet moment.  
> Many thanks to RecycledFaery for the beta.

**-After the end-**

The first time he’s been face to face with Linc in three years with no glass or fences between them, they’re standing in the colorful half light of Fox River’s chapel. He buries his hands in his pockets and clenches his fingers on the rough fabric.

 

**-The middle-**

They’re lying in bed in Michael’s too-perfect-to-be-real apartment. The place is like something from the pages of a design magazine – not that Lincoln reads that kind of stuff, but he can imagine what it looks like: glass and metal, rare wood and steel, linen and leather, subtle and delicate colors. Even their clothes – his clothes, Michael’s pajama bottoms – have apparently been discarded on the floor to create a tasteful mess. Everything is neat, tidy and flawless. It makes him feel totally out of place.

He _is_ out of place, for so many reasons. If he was prone to use that kind of language, he would say ‘out of place’ is a euphemism.

The bed is decadently large. However, in the golden light of the small lamp Michael has finally turned on, it seems uncomfortably narrow, and Lincoln’s doing his best to stay on its edge. He has the sheets up to his waist, and a pillow pressed against him as if this could protect him from... anything. Michael is stretched out on the other side, too far and too close at the same time, his face to the wall. He’s still panting and his shoulders rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. He merges into the perfection of the room; he is part of it; even the smooth skin of his back matches the light brown sheets.

Michael is, has always been, too close and too far at the same time, and Lincoln realizes how much _he_ is out of place.

There’s a soft sound of fabric, the mattress shifts, and against his will Lincoln is dragged toward the middle of the bed. His heart abruptly races faster and he has to clutch at the pillow to stay put and not get the hell out of here. The only reason he stays there, doesn’t move, is because Michael turns around and looks at him with as much guilt as affection and resignation. Michael has a tiny smile, a bit contrite, and all Lincoln wants is to ask why the bed is so large and hug him. But he just digs his fingers into the damn pillow, so hard he thinks the fabric may tear. He can do with his own guilt and remorse. But as far as Michael is concerned? As far as Michael is concerned, he wants to make them disappear, if only for a few moments, them and the pain that goes along with it. Except the only way to do that is to...

It’s a vicious circle.

“Thirsty,” Michael mumbles. His voice is rough, exhausted and trustful, and Lincoln breaks. Unable to resist, he slides his hand towards Michael’s shoulder and down his shoulder blade. The skin beneath his fingers is moist and warm, almost feverish; his fingernails bite the flesh and Michael smiles at him with a little more confidence, his eyes intense.

“I’ll...” Lincoln glances at the door. It’s just a patch of dark at the other end of the room, with the entire apartment behind it. He realizes he’s seen nothing but the bedroom. “If you tell me where the fridge is, I’ll get you something to drink.”

 

**-The beginning-**

He’s startled awake by the soft closing of the front door. He tenses and rises up on his elbows in the middle of his king-sized bed. There’s noise in the living room, somebody is fumbling around and stumbling on the furniture. He’s familiar with the way the intruder is moving, the way he’s walking and swearing, and he loosens up. With a small groan, he slumps down on the pillows, sags into the bed, presses himself deeper into the mattress. Halfway between sleep and reality, between bliss and anger, he thinks _fucking son of a bitch_. The coarseness matched only by the affection.

The wooden floor creaks a couple of feet in front of the doorway – he should really fix that floorboard – and that’s the signal he needs to open his eyes and get ready for whatever’s coming next.

“How did you get in?” he asks, without moving.

There are a few minutes of silence, no direct answer, as if Lincoln believes his entrance has gone unnoticed and is surprised to be caught red-handed. As if Lincoln had never been caught red-handed before.

“You left a key at Lisa’s for me.”

He turns around in the bed and looks at the door. It’s useless; the bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, is barely lit up: there’s nothing more than the unsteady glow of the street lights and the soft glimmer from the snow on the terrace. The whole room is nothing but black, grey and silver shadows, and all Michael can see is a figure in front of the door. Lincoln is too far in the shadows for Michael to make out his features.

“It was for emergencies,” he points out. He tries to rub the sleep away from his face, and then shifts and sits on the edge of the mattress. Lincoln stays put at the doorway. He seems to think that he’ll have to get out any minute now; he might not be wrong.

“This is an emergency.”

“You’ve been kicked out of your apartment?”

“I don’t have an apartment yet.”

Michael sniffs with derision. “Yes, of course”

When could Lincoln have been looking for an apartment? He’s been out of prison for a week, released a day early, and he didn’t even make time to come and see his brother, return Michael’s phone calls or let him know, by any – modern or not so modern – means, where he could be found. So, when could Lincoln have been looking for an apartment? It’s good to know, however, Lincoln has had the time to drop by Lisa’s pick up the key and, with a bit of luck, the messages Michael has left there “In case you see him, Lisa.” Fucking son of a bitch.

“Are you angry at me?”

Michael breathes deeply. ‘Angry’ is not the right term. He was angry when he cleared his calendar, canceled a crucial appointment, let his assistant handle a new client, drove to Galesburg and waited for two hours. Then he was told that “Lincoln Burrows was released yesterday, mister Scofield.” After the usual routine – a week of calling hospitals, police stations, and everyone and anyone, a week of cruising and checking all the places where Lincoln could have been – he was way past angry. He wants to hug Lincoln and makes sure he’s all right, and then kick him in the teeth, just to make sure his dumb brother understands what he’s been through. It didn’t go that well the last time he punched Lincoln, but he’s not fifteen anymore. He’s quite sure he could do some damage before he ends up with a black eye or a split lip.

He contemplates the idea for a few seconds, with a fair amount of glee. The notion of Lincoln’s nose cracking, bleeding under his fingers is...

“What do you think, Lincoln?” he shoots back, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

He tiredly reaches for the bed lamp – he’d rather know right now why Lincoln’s here, what he wants, what drama has once again shaken his life and what he’s going to ask of him. However, in the dim light of the window, Lincoln can see him moving; he stops him with a muted and harsh “No...” and Michael freezes with his hand above the bedside table.

“Don’t turn it on. Please.”

A sudden lump of disbelief and aggravation grows in Michael’s throat – Lincoln can’t ignore him for a whole week, and then come back just like that and expect... – and it almost chokes him. He stiffens on the edge of the bed.

“Is _that_ the emergency?” Even to his own ears, the question is laden with a pathetic mixture of resentment and hope. This isn’t something he wants, but he hasn’t figured out yet how to go without it. “Linc?”

Lincoln carefully, purposely strolls into the bedroom as if he’d just taken a decision, his demeanor cautious and wary. He doesn’t look at Michael, he keeps his eyes on the large picture window, and he waits, like he’s waiting for a judgment.

They don’t move nor talk for a few seconds, the silence barely broken by the sound of their breathing; it’s a rough, uneven noise. Lincoln struggles not to leave, while Michael struggles not to kick him out.

As usual, Michael is the one that moves. Because Lincoln is like that, unable to get to the bottom of things: he can cross the starting line, but not the finishing one. Like in slow motion, Michael rises up from the bed and walks toward Lincoln. The hug and kick impulse he felt a few moments before merges into a single gesture, and he grabs Lincoln by the shoulders, the leather of the jacket cold and wet under his hands. He pushes him backward, hard enough for Lincoln’s skull to hit the wall with a muffled thump, but he doesn’t care, his brother is hard-headed, experience has abundantly proven that. And Lincoln doesn’t protest, anyway, he barely gasps with surprise. He doesn’t try to resist or break free, he just lets it happen.

He smells like soap and whisky. And cigarettes. The plain soap he’s always used. Whisky, because he probably had a drink to steel his resolve. Both odors can’t mask the scent of the cigarette hastily smoked outside, or the trace of nervous sweat. This, and the wet leather of the jacket... it’s so perfectly _Lincoln_. Michael moves closer, inhales the smell, and he wonders how he hasn’t lost it, how he’s been able to live without that for six months, and be content with the scraps stolen in the visiting room. Impatience and greediness catch up with him, and his hands grip and clench almost painfully.

Lincoln whispers “I’m sorry” into Michael’s ear, and Michael quivers under the warm breath on his skin. He grabs Lincoln by the neck, preventing him from any attempt to shy away. He doesn’t know what Lincoln is sorry about – for showing up or for waiting a whole week before showing up – but right now, he doesn’t care very much for an answer. He cares even less when, in the next second, he crushes his mouth to Lincoln’s, urgent and sloppy. He bites Lincoln’s lips, because he doesn’t get quick enough – right away – what he wants from him, and after a fleeting moment, Linc leans into the kiss. There’s the contrast between cold, almost chapped, lips and hot tongue, the wet leather scraping his skin and Lincoln’s fast breathing on his cheek. Above all, there’s during the first few seconds the feeling that his tongue is swelling in his mouth, a burning behind his eyes, a thump at the back of his skull. The sensation withdraws almost immediately but there’s always, in the beginning, this heave of disgust. A slight groan escapes Michael’s throat when the nausea finally ebbs away and is replaced with a much more pleasant sensation. He feels like he’s going to melt right there, right against Lincoln, and he leisurely, delicately puts an end to the kiss.

“I thought you were angry at me?”

Michael kisses him again, slow and deliberate. No need to bite or demand: this time around, Linc is compliant and willing. “I still am.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Lincoln says with a smirk.

Michael bucks and protests when Lincoln lays a freezing cold hand on his lower-back. But his brother doesn’t remove it; he slides it up Michael’s back to his shoulders, and he cups Michael’s jaw with his other hand, his fingers lingering under the ear. Michael quivers from both the cold and the touch. He covers Lincoln’s hands with his own and warms them, and for a few seconds, they silently stare at each other.

“Let me make up for it,” Lincoln finally offers.

\- - - - -

This isn’t something they talk about. They did have a discussion once – they tried to, anyway – only once, a long time ago, and quite frankly, none of them can come up with something to add.

When they broached the subject, Lincoln was lying on his side, pressed against Michael. His hand laid flat on his brother’s chest, and Michael’s heartbeats were pulsating and pounding under his palm. While watching him catching his breath, Linc said dully: “This isn’t right.”

Michael rolled on his side, pressed harder against Linc and replied: “That’s an understatement.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We really shouldn’t,” approved Michael. He gently pushed Lincoln until he was spread out on his stomach, and he toppled over him. “But I can’t help it.”

And maybe Lincoln was pretty biased at this exact moment, because Michael was mouthing wet open kisses along his spine, but he rumbled: “Me either.” He arched his back and the kisses became more insistent.

This isn’t something they talk about.

\- - - - -

Michael is scorching hot. This isn’t a metaphor or a contrast with his own bitter cold skin: Michael is really scorching hot. He leaves a burning trail everywhere they’re touching or brushing each other. Lincoln knows it’s going to get worse, almost unbearable, and then, after a few moments, it will be tolerable, then nice, pleasant, and then exhilarating, and then...

So he lets Michael touch him. Michael’s hands burn him as they strip him down, undress him, and discard his jacket and sweater. They slide on his torso with blatant delight, and Lincoln’s stomach tightens. They barely pause when Michael orders him “Shoes” and they go after his belt. They tremble a bit on Lincoln, giving away Michael’s restlessness and apprehension, and Lincoln shudders under them.

\- - - - -

This isn’t something they talk about, it’s something they do. If he was asked about it, Lincoln would say they’ve always been doing it. Of course, in the beginning, it wasn’t _like that_. In the beginning they were kids and they sometimes slept in the same bed when they needed protection from a nightmare or to share some secret even Mom didn’t know about. Later, it had been to keep each other warm when they had to choose the bills they could afford to pay. Or sometimes, it had been because Michael looked like he would just collapse and break apart, and Lincoln could do nothing but hold him. And sometimes, it had been because Lincoln had something to be forgiven for – he disappeared for a few days, spent the rent money, deserted Michael, smoked, drank, forgot... Lincoln always had plenty of reasons to plead for forgiveness. When that happened, Michael needed the touch, the touch and the warmth, familiar and comforting. Lincoln didn’t see the trap until it was too late: Michael needed him, sure, but he needed Michael’s need. They were co-dependant, subservient, and in spite of all appearances, Lincoln didn’t necessarily have the upper hand in their relationship.

\- - - - -

They stumble and stagger toward the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth, and they won’t break apart for more than a second. The bedroom is barely lit, and Lincoln wallows in this twilight – nobody can see them, judge them, condemn them. This is their secret, this need, along with the ache that torments them when they can’t fulfill it, and the shadowy light in the bedroom protects it.

Lincoln has more secrets; some he won’t share even with Michael, especially with Michael. In the daylight, he thinks the whole thing is sordid and obscene; all the more sordid and obscene because the inbred repulsion needs nothing more than Michael kissing him or laying a hand on his arm to be pushed away and vanish. But when the shadows come back, once he’s wrapped around Michael, their breaking the taboo just stirs him up even more.

“I missed you,” he says in his brother’s neck. And it’s the truth. He had to endure six months in the prison visiting room, in the midst of the crowd and noise, trying not to think about what he wanted and couldn’t get – their own version of Tantalus’ torture, as Michael once pointed out. Lincoln can still feel the tingling that ate at the palms of his hands when Mike arrived, and the clamping of his stomach when the bell rang at the end of the visiting hour.

Six months in the visiting room, and one week of... “I missed you,” he says again.

At the exact time he speaks the words, he realizes he should have shut up. The confession seems to ruffle Michael’s feathers, and Michael glares at him through narrowed eyes.

“Maybe you should have thought about it before you were thrown into prison again.”

“You little shit.” He kisses him, deep and thorough, to demonstrate how much he's missed him.

Michael wriggles under him, tries to break free and push him away. Out of breath because of both his struggle and Lincoln’s kiss, he finally grouses: “Fucking son a bitch!”

He’s not aggressive enough to be taken seriously, and Lincoln smiles. Because when Michael is reduced to gratuitous insults? He’s yielding. His tortuous mind, too smart and intricate for Lincoln to ever understand, always figures it out when Michael wants to fight, discuss, argue and win.

So he pushes him further into the mattress, grabs a hold of his wrists, and he sarcastically mutters “Love you too.” He speaks right against Michael’s throat, loud enough for him to hear, but low enough for him to wonder if he’d correctly understood – Lincoln usually doesn’t utter statements of that kind. Unlike his brother, he has no gift for wording his thoughts – Michael is the one who has a way with words. Michael can say so many things with so few words; he can throw buckets of well-constructed sentences at him; he can drop an insult filled with affection or some arrogant but nice sounding words; even his silences are full of meaning.

Lincoln does not have the gift of wording his thoughts, so instead, he’s concise and he doesn’t tell, he shows. His lips slides up Michael’s rough jaw, and he whispers into his ear in a barely audible sigh: “I love you. So Much.” With not even a hint of a sarcasm, this time.

And Michael better believe it, because Lincoln won’t say it again anytime soon.

It takes him a few seconds to notice that Michael has stopped fighting under him. He keeps moving, but it’s now in a slow, fluid, arousing way that makes Lincoln gasp and jolt with each gesture. He realizes they both have better things to do than restrain each other, and releases his hold on Michael’s arms. Michael immediately squirms back and settles in the middle of the bed, and he tugs him forward. He opens his legs so Lincoln can nestle between them, he opens his mouth under Lincoln’s, he opens his eyes and focuses on Lincoln. Within minutes everything else is forgotten, and their universe shrinks to contain only the bed. Michael instinctively pushes down Linc’s head, then slides his hands under his brother’s elbows and tries to drag him up. Once, twice, and Lincoln gently mumbles: “Make up you mind.”

“Linc…” He’s breathing through his mouth, so hard and heavy the air vibrates between them. He fists the sheets, crumples and twists them in his hands, and with a satisfied smile, Lincoln chooses for him. He revels in each slight rolling of Michael’s hips and rippling of his muscles, in each groan of appreciation; he revels in the hands gripping his shoulders and his neck, the whispered “Just like that...” and “Please...” He revels in each shred of control Michael is willing to give up and let him have. This doesn’t happen often.

It’s not going to last, not as long as Lincoln would like to, anyway. He tenderly and caringly licks and fondles as much flesh as possible, as long as Michael lets him; the taste, the smell, the feel of the skin under his mouth and his hands are wonderfully familiar. Then, with an impatient hum, Michael turns around, rolls onto his stomach, and Lincoln watches as the light draws strange shadows on his brother’s skin. For a split second, he wishes the half-light wouldn’t steal the image from him. He almost wants to stretch out his arm, turn on the lamp and light up the room. But the usual sense of unreality catches up with him, and he leans forward and buries his chin in the soothing crook of Michael’s neck.

\- - - - -

He doesn’t know when things exactly changed and became _that_. He doesn’t know when regular brotherly affection became excessive affection, and when the misguided affection became a reprehensible affection. Neither does he remember how it happened. He has fuzzy memories – quick hugs morphing into embraces, then into cuddles; comforting touches morphing into tender brushes, then into feverish caresses; kisses hellishly spiraling down and down; small secrets gradually replaced by sighs, gasps and muted whines. Each time they became a bit more desperate, a bit less able to go back.

His memory is fuzzy, and he can’t remember when the lines blurred. Maybe it’s a good thing: knowing the exact point in time he began to want Michael and be wanted by Michael wouldn’t bring anything new to their situation. There has never been any break, any important event leading to..., any dramatic change or conscious choice. Just needs and aches, the feelings between them escalading, becoming acute and excessive, out of control and almost painful. Sometimes, the whole thing exploded in a brisk and harsh fight, and sometimes... In these moments, all Lincoln could do was hold Michael and let Michael hold him back. Each time, his brain has been hammered by the idea that it shouldn’t be that perfect, with _no one_ – how then, in conditions like these, stop? How keep the promise it would be the last time, just one last time and never ever again? And it has never been so perfect, not even with Veronica. Just Michael. With Michael, he’s complete, and he complements Michael, they intertwine so perfectly and totally.

Perfect – and twisted and immoral and unfathomable.

Lincoln isn’t sure they could have prevented it from happening. He’d just like to think that at least one of them tried.

\- - - - -

He’s breathing into his pillow. He can smell the soap and, more important, the scent of Lincoln permeating the sheets. He already knows that, in a few hours, he’ll stand there, in front of the bed, contemplating his options. He’ll be as unable to sleep in the sheets as to take them off and wash them.

“Michael...?” Lincoln’s voice is urgent and brings him back to the here and now. His brother doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t have to, Michael knows what he’s asking for.

“In the nightstand. The drawer.”

Lincoln closely squeezes him, stretching out to reach the bedside table, and when he speaks, Michael can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” He’s satisfied, almost smug. Because at this point, Lincoln has forgotten his guilt, and he shamelessly basks in the desire and the need he can feel from Michael. His coming back to reality will be all the more tough – this is Lincoln... all excess, no finesse – but it’s not the time to remind him of that. It will happen soon enough.

He’s been waiting for him. He hates himself and he hates Lincoln for that, but one way or another, whatever the reason, he’s always waiting for him. He doesn’t answer the question, he just demands: “Hurry up.”

Then he arches his shoulders, pushes up his lower-back, and stretch out an arm to take Lincoln’s hand in his. He’s always scared at this moment, he’s always afraid Lincoln would choose this very instant to elude him. The desperation in his brother’s firm grasp may suggest the fear is reciprocal. Michael has never got it: Lincoln should _know_.

He has one of Lincoln’s hands in his. The other one is sliding from his hip to his belly - petting, fondling, stroking with eager fingers. Lincoln’s skin against his, the cold long gone. The words pouring into his neck, so tender they’re filthier than any obscenity.

Really... really, he doesn’t want _that_ , who would want that? But if he thinks about not getting it anymore, he feels a terror, an indescribable emptiness wash over him. He bends and curves to snuggle into Lincoln, and Lincoln’s arms close tightly around him.

Who the hell is he kidding? He thinks. His eyes squeezes shut. He knows he’ll let the sheets stay on the bed as long as possible.

 

**-After the middle-**

Under his closed eyes, the light is red and is sprayed with tiny golden dots. If he wallowed in ludicrous sentimentalism, he would think the tiny golden dots were caused not by the light but by _Linc_.

He does not wallow in that kind of thoughts, of course.

He can hear Lincoln in the kitchen, at the other end of the apartment, looking for the drinks and probably nosing around: he’s opening and closing the cupboards, moving things in the fridge, maybe rummaging through the drawers. The intimacy of his behavior makes Michael’s head spin, he feels like the bed is reeling, the mattress swaying under him.

“Did you want a beer or one of these macrobiotic things?” Michael doesn’t bother to answer or open his eyes. He can feel Linc coming back and slumping next to him. “I brought you both.”

He still doesn’t move. Lincoln leans above him and places the bottles on his night table. He can vaguely hear the thick glass knocking against the wood.

“Mike?”

“Mm?”

“What are doing with this thing?”

He has to speak now, so he generously grants a: “What thing?”

Something delicate, light and silky-smooth, touches his neck. It circles on the skin of his throat, then goes down across his chest, tickles his stomach and moves onto his belly. He smiles and... OK, he’ll open his eyes now. He can see a purple feather brushing against him, barely teasing the sheets pooling at his hips. Obviously, Lincoln hasn’t restrained his poking around to the kitchen.

“Calligraphy.” He knows Lincoln is rolling his eyes, this is exactly the kind of activity that makes Lincoln roll his eyes. Michael tries to catch his brother’s wrist, without success. “Give me that, it isn’t a toy.”

“But it _could_ be...”

His voice is low and laden with innuendo. Michael rolls onto his side to face him. “Not with a sharpened tip at the other end, no.” And since Linc is about to protest, he quickly retrieves the feather and dip its point in his brother’s collarbone. The skin breaks and opens, and a few drops of blood flows out, red and shiny. He leans forward and licks the skin clean; the blood leaves a metallic taste on his tongue.

“Freak,” Lincoln mumbles.

Michael is _that_ close to asking him if, among all the events of the night he really thinks this is the freakiest one. He chokes on the words just quick enough, aware neither Lincoln nor he want to dwell on the subject.

“Vampire,” Lincoln adds. He looks at him with unease, as if he really believes Michael would grow fangs and bite him. Michael thinks it’s an interesting take on the situation, since he feels like he’s been possessed, enthralled, bewitched for years. Uncaringly, he drops the feather behind him – maybe it falls on the nightstand, maybe it slides on the floor, he couldn’t care less; he just knows Linc tells him to “Watch it! Don’t let this thing in the bed.” He rises up on his forearm and glides toward Lincoln. He half expects his brother to wince or pull away. But Lincoln stays put, barely blinks, and Michael slouches on him, almost totally covering him.

“You’re heavier than you look. You’d better drink the macrobiotic stuff rather than the beer.”

With the tang of blood still in his mouth, he sinks his teeth into Lincoln’s neck and bites hard, twists and sucks on the skin. He bites to leave his mark. A small vibration arises from Lincoln’s throat, complaint or approval; Michael can feel it echoing through his jaws and rumbling in his cheeks. He closes his eyes. So much skin and warmth under him, Lincoln’s hands on his back, on his neck, urging his face up, Lincoln’s mouth seeking his. He lies flat on Lincoln, moves shamelessly and smiles when his brother jerks under him.

“God,” Lincoln pants, “it should be forbidden.”

His face thrown back, his eyes closed, the muscles in his neck taut: the image always has the same overwhelming effect on Michael. The first time, he felt something break deep inside him, and he thought it was his sanity flowing away through a small breach, to be replaced by an ephemeral but intense bliss.

He wants to tell Lincoln he loves him – that he madly, excessively loves him, more than anything – but he keeps his mouth shut, because he never knows how Lincoln is going to greet that kind of declaration. He can ask for proof or get dressed in the blink of an eye and disappear for an undetermined length of time.

Michael isn’t sure which option would be worse.

He lightly kisses him on the corner of the mouth. Lincoln tries to get more, but Michael raises his head and escapes. He backs away a bit, turns around and takes a few sips from his drink – the macrobiotic stuff – then bends over Lincoln.

“Actually, it is.”

They’re whispering, despite the fact there’s nobody who could be disturbed or awaken. Michael assumes the nature of the discussion induces their quietness. Or maybe it’s the peacefulness of the moment: it’s snowing again, and through the large window, they can see fat snowflakes whirling around; the bed lamp casts a warm golden circle and tries to push away the pale lights outside; the sounds from the street are muffled, barely audible. They both feel as if they’re in a cocoon.

“What?” Linc has lost track of their talk.

“It _is_ forbidden. Incest is illegal in this state,” he says calmly.

Lincoln freezes, Michael can almost hear his brother’s heart missing a few beats. Lincoln doesn’t like the word. He likes, among other things, to touch, caress, kiss his brother, appropriate him, and has the favor returned to him, but he doesn’t like to label it. Just like he can stand to do that only in the half-light, in the well-kept twilight. Michael doesn’t care that much: it’s nothing but a word. Refusing to hear or utter it won’t change what they do, what they are. And in the absolute, his tongue tasting Linc’s skin is nothing but flesh on flesh – and stopping the whole affair now would absolve them from nothing. He licks the skin, and the act makes Lincoln forget the word.

He knows it’s amoral, sick, perverted. He knows the nausea he feels when he starts kissing Lincoln should last longer, shouldn’t go away, should keep him from doing it, should keep him from carrying on, should prevent him from doing it again.

He knows how it should be. He just let his hand slide between them and he caresses Linc, tenderly, sensuously, until Lincoln rubs himself against his fingers and pleads with a broken voice: “Don’t stop.” He doesn’t.

“Do you think they’d lock us up together?” he resumes, smirking.

Taken aback by the question, Lincoln abruptly opens his eyes. He’s unfocused, but he can gather his thoughts quick enough to reprovingly slap Michael behind the head. The sound reverberates in the bedroom and Michael is pushed forward, his nose smashing into Linc’s cheek.

“Stop it, this isn’t funny!” Yet, Lincoln is half smiling. Michael smiles back, but he mulls over the fact that Lincoln is right: this isn’t funny. This isn’t funny, because this is true: not losing Lincoln would be his priority. Michael wonders how much time he still has. How long it will take for Lincoln to permanently elude him. Their separations are becoming longer and longer; the reunions are more and more tumultuous; the reconciliations are a bit more desperate each time.

“Eh...” Lincoln’s fingers close on his neck and shake him; it’s playful and agonizingly _brotherly_. When Lincoln realizes that, he immediately lets him go. “Sorry,” he mutters. “What’s up?”

“I was just thinking about something.”

Lincoln grumbles about the nefarious and inconvenient hyperactivity of Michael’s brain and demands “Come here.” He tugs him forward, and Michael pushes away his insecurities, carefully wraps them up so as to open and analyze them later. He restrains Lincoln under him. For now... for now nobody goes anywhere.

He kisses Lincoln sweetly, almost chastely at first, barely touching his lips. A ghost of a kiss. It becomes insistent and forceful when Lincoln hugs him tight. His brother’s hands slide on him, clasp and grab with some sort of despair, and he murmurs something about burning in Hell. Michael can’t help thinking he’s probably right, but he refrains from saying it out loud. He refrains from saying that their own little hell is already quite something. He just thinks that if Hell is really their final destination, they should at least make the trip worth while. In a metaphor that sends him smirking, he slowly crawls downward. He fondles, kisses, inhales and revels in Lincoln’s erratic movements and in-takes of air. It looks like his brother is uttering a strange mixture of threats, instructions and promises, but Michael doesn’t stop until his face is right above Linc’s belly. He looks up and meets Lincoln’s gaze.

“Michael, you...,” he starts. His eyes are dark and shiny, too dark and too shiny. He’s half in the light of the bed lamp and half in the shadow created by the pillows – so appropriate.

“Turn off the light,” Michael orders him. Not that he absolutely wants that dimness, but he knows it’s unavoidable. There’s no word, no gesture for a few seconds. He’s starting to believe that he’s going to have to repeat, demand, maybe do it himself. Finally, Lincoln gives in with a sigh. The lamp switch softly clicks, the bedroom is once again washed by the unsteady glow of the street lights and the soft glimmer from the snow, and Linc is nothing but a grey and silver figure under Michael.

 

**-The end-**

Michael controls everything else, his desires and thoughts and musings are carefully held on a leash, mastered and subjugated. He thought he had power over that too. He thought he had been able to stop. But he looks at his brother’s face, bathed by the twilight, and he thinks that he doesn’t resent his biggest failure as much as he probably should.

\- - - - -

Lincoln has tried to become who he’s supposed to be – some guy who doesn’t fuck up his brother, and doesn’t let his brother fuck him up, whatever their mutual desire to do so is. He knows the most obvious proof of love he could give would be to _stop_. He has tried to stop. Really. He’s held on, exactly and with no reason to gloat, six months in prison.

And one week at large.

\- - - - -

They can’t say they like this twilight; it’s just they can’t bring themselves to definitely dive one way or the other.

-END-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790491) by [Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune)




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